


say nothing (but stare at you)

by factorielle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dancer Stiles, Denial, Failwolf, Future Fic, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Pole Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/factorielle/pseuds/factorielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek has mixed feelings about getting emails from Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	say nothing (but stare at you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/gifts).



> This was plan A. (Plan B is [another story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/883420).)  
> Happy birthday, Dodie! ♥

It’s not that Derek is allergic to technology: he understands how wi-fi works. He uses most of the functions his smartphone has to offer. Last he checked, he had an average typing speed of 87 words per minute. Peter and Stiles can say what they want: it’s a matter of personal taste, not ability, that he prefers books over screens and first-hand knowledge over a google search.

Still, he appreciates that the internet makes it possible to manage his investments in the dead of night, or on bank holidays, or whenever he can bear to think about the origin of that money without being overwhelmed with guilt.

He’s just about about to turn off the laptop and head to bed when he sees the notification, and frowns.

Derek has mixed feelings about getting emails from Stiles.

He has mixed feelings about any communication initiated by Stiles, really. Most of the time, it immediately precedes chaos and devastation. Emails are the worst, though: they usually mean that Stiles has something important to say, and that he took the time to phrase it properly. That is never a good thing. He can be plenty devastating with words without thinking them through first.

Even so, it’s news from Stiles, and Derek has received very little of that recently. Especially news sent at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night. He’s probably halfway drunk from a college party.

This could be a warning of impending doom, but it could also be pure entertainment.

Or it might be personal, Stiles deliberately touching base, nostalgic and maudlin. It could be about Derek, and that’s why he opens the email instead of leaving it for the morning.

 

 **From:** gstilinski@berkeley.edu  
 **To:** derek.hale@aol.com  
 **Subject:** That vid

Hey Deanna,  
[Here’s](http://archiveofourown.org/works/) the link as promised. Thanks again for putting a word in for me, I could really use that job. I owe you forever and ever, everything I have is yours, soul, firstborn, sexual favors and so forth.  
Stiles

 

The first thing Derek allows himself to think is that Stiles should know better than to promise his soul, even in jest, to anyone.

The second thing he allows himself to think is what kind of job takes a link to a video as a résumé? He latches on to that question and clicks the link, even though it clearly wasn’t intended for him, even though Stiles really didn’t mean to talk to him.

It takes him to a… blog post, maybe, probably, that contains some text Derek might have read, if not for the video accompanying it. It’s frozen on a frame of a lithe man, hanging upside down from a pole in what looks like a living room. He has short, dark hair, and is facing away from the camera.

There are moles sprinkled all over his back, and the play button hides whatever underwear he may or may not be wearing.

Derek closes the tab. Closes the browser. Reopens it to delete all history, cookies and cache. Gets up from the sofa and leaves the loft entirely.

He takes ten steps outside, then heads back just to double-lock the door, feverishly.

He goes for a run. Out of town, into the woods, around the Preserve. It’s a new moon, so dark he has to stick to his alpha vision, but there’s no one to see him like this, so deep in the woods.

He tries not to think about anything but the running, the air coming in and out of his lungs, the pull in his muscles. It’s difficult, at first, so he allows himself little thoughts: about Isaac’s adventures in Boston, or the new members of Scott’s pack. It takes him longer than he’d like, but eventually he gets back into himself, focuses on the ridiculous amount of effort it takes to drive himself to exertion.

He loses track of time until the dirty light of dawn makes him realize that he’s been out for hours, and he decides to head home. He gets back to the building drenched in sweat, body and mind loose, finally relaxed.

The laptop takes him by surprise, sitting innocent and alluringly open on the coffee table, screen long since turned black. Derek is caught tired and unwary, and he doesn’t really notice what he’s doing until he has the email open, until he’s clicked the link and is facing the page again. He freezes there, right hand hovering over the touchpad, and stares at the play button for a moment.

He should be turning the computer off, going to bed, or possibly working out some more until he falls over. He should.

He knows the exact moment he gives in. It’s happened so many times, in so many ways, that he’s learned to recognize it. There’s a point when his arguments, his principles, his convictions stop being enough in the face of what needs to be done. Any resistance he puts up after that is merely for show.

There’s no-one here to watch him pretend to resist, so he starts the video with a sigh and leans back.

The seconds it takes for it to actually start have Derek wiping his hands on his thighs. Sweat, from running for so long.

It opens on a mostly empty room with a pole in the center, with bright, garish lights and a guy on the right, tall and lean in well-fitted black boxer briefs. He gets up just as the video starts, runs his hands over his thighs, his ass, and faces the pole.

Derek swallows, shifts uncomfortably on the sofa.

It’s Stiles.

He didn’t expect anything else, but it comes as a shock anyway. Stiles, starring in a four minutes long video involving a pole. Stiles, showing more skin than Derek has ever seen in the five years they’ve known each other.

It’s research, he tells himself as Stiles circles the bar before grabbing it, high, and jumping into a spin. It’s about finding out what Stiles can do now, how much Derek can expect if he ever needs to rely on him again. It hasn’t happened in the past two years, but complacency isn’t something Derek will ever be accused of again.

That first spin lasts a ridiculous amount of time, as Stiles lifts his legs and spreads them wide, before pulling his whole body closer to the pole. Derek makes himself think about angular velocity and centripetal acceleration and anything that is not the two seconds of video capturing the inside of Stiles’ thighs, the shape of the muscles there.

By the time Derek has convinced himself of that, Stiles is spinning the other way, sliding down the pole, anchored by knee and elbow. Derek breathes. Maybe the worst is over. This looks physically impressive, and he was only distantly aware that Stiles could move that way, with no hesitation or extraneous movements. But it’s okay to watch. It doesn’t make Derek’s palms sweat, doesn’t tempt him to dig his claws into his thighs lest he--

Do something.

The respite lasts for all of twenty seconds, until Stiles is sliding down the pole, wrapped around it like he’s trying to rub his scent all over it before he faces the camera and crouches, legs spread wide again, briefs pulled tight around his thighs. Then he’s jumping up, and starts spinning upside down, held up by nothing but a leg wrapped around the pole from hip to ankle.

There’s a mole just left of his spine, right at the edge of the underwear. No human would have seen it.

Derek wishes he could take his eyes off it.

Looking anywhere else isn’t much of a solution. Stiles’ legs have already proved to be a problem. Then there are his arms, all corded muscles and strong grip: things that Derek didn’t pay much attention to when he became aware of them, years ago. Back then, the simple fact of someone deliberately touching him trumped those details.

They’re hard to ignore now, and even if he tried, there’d be nothing left to look at but Stiles’ chest, his abs, the contrast between black fabric and pale skin. Or his face, which looks relaxed most of the time, as though all of this is easy. But there are moments, in between two moves, that seem like mild hesitation. Derek sees Stiles frown in concentration then, several times, until he realizes that the video is just not good enough to show it. That he’s imagining it, from having known Stiles so long, from having seen him research, run for his life, fight for someone else’s. For Derek’s.

Stiles’ focused expression is an image that has long since been burned into his mind.

There will be others, now: Stiles clenching the pole between his thighs and extending his arms, his rotation never stopping. Stiles kneeling and arching back, gripping the pole above his head, exposing stomach and throat for a second before pulling himself up with the sole strength of his arms. Stiles catching the pole between his legs again and sliding all the way back down until he’s half-crawling on the floor, propped up on his forearms, head bent down. Stiles wrapping his hands around the pole, long fingers caught in the light. The length of his body pressed against the pole as he runs his hands over his torso, his head, his ass.

The video ends after an eternity that only lasted seconds, but Derek keeps staring at the screen, at the mosaic of ‘related’ videos, all of pole dancing. None of Stiles as far as he can tell. He’s not sure whether to be grateful or disappointed.

Grateful, he decides. Definitely grateful. He’s only ever thought of Stiles’ body in terms of how breakable it was, how little strength it could develop, compared to the werewolves’. He’s been very careful about that. Anything else would be ill-advised. So that’s the end of that.

After an embarrassingly long time, Derek runs his hands over his face and pushes himself up. It’s only when he reaches to turn off the computer that he notices the red cross over the loudspeaker icon in the bottom right corner.

He hadn’t even noticed that the video was silent.

Once again, his body acts without his permission and turns up the sound before restarting it. Only for a few seconds, to know what kind of music would go with this, he tells himself.

The first measures sound vaguely familiar, but he doesn’t recognize the song until a raucous voice announces that this is what sweet dreams are made of, just as Stiles’ legs are opening for him and the world to see.

Derek feels himself gives in again. He stops trying to analyze every move and just watches, mesmerized. Still he leaves his hands at his sides, flat against the sofa. Doesn’t reach for the button of his jeans, despite how uncomfortably tight they feel. Doesn’t, doesn’t, _doesn’t_.

Until he does, eyes fluttering half shut, seeing nothing but blurry movement onscreen as he pulls his dick out and starts stroking himself with no finesse or technique, just wanting it over, because this is something he’s been careful to keep at bay, to not have to deal with. He’s always known that thinking about Stiles like this would lead to nothing but disaster.

But from where he’s leaning it’s like Stiles is dancing in Derek’s own loft, putting on a show for him and him alone; like when he walks off frame he’ll appear from behind the computer. Maybe he’ll crawl up to straddle Derek’s lap, a fraction of an inch away from touching him. And he’ll smirk and reach between them, slide his hand down Derek’s and nudge it off, brush the tip of his fingers against the head of Derek’s cock, smear the drop of pre-come over the skin before wrapping his fingers around the shaft. It’ll become too much then, and he’ll let his forehead fall into the crook of Derek’s neck, a second point of contact between them as he strokes, slow and languorous, his breath accelerating against Derek’s skin as his hand speeds up between them.

There’ll be sounds then, moans and half-words trapped against each other’s shoulders speaking to how long this has been coming, how much they haven’t allowed themselves to want it. How the waiting has made it better, regardless. Whispered reassurances that this is only breaking the tension, a promise of a next time, and a next and a next and a next, until they can’t anymore and have to stop for something to eat, naked and tangled on Derek’s bed.

It should be embarrassing that this is the thought that pushes Derek over the edge, makes him spill all over his fingers and t-shirt, gasping, tears crowding at the corners of his eyes. It should be embarrassing, but Derek’s denial can only go so far. If this thing about Stiles had been purely physical, he’d have had no trouble getting it out of his system. Really, it’s a relief that his fantasy didn’t get to the white picket fence separating the Stilinski-Hale and McCall houses, to the three dogs and the fights about whose turn it was to do the laundry.

He sighs, closing his eyes against the harsh light of the monitor.

He’d been doing so well not thinking about it. It was the most sensible thing to do, in the circumstances. They’ve never had the kind of relationship where something like this was even a remote possibility. Hoping for anything else would have been foolish. Maybe even as foolish as refusing to even examine what’s obviously there.

Now what?

It’s clear at least that he can’t keep denying this thing he has for Stiles anymore, even if he can still refuse to examine the exact shape and size of it. And there’s the fact that Stiles is applying for a job with this video. There’s how desperate the email makes him out to be. Those are sources of concern, legitimate reasons for him to check in.

It shouldn’t be too difficult to get this going. Stiles is a natural communicator, capable of latching onto the slightest hook to start a conversation. All Derek needs to do is give him an opening.

It should be a good one, though. He should think about it, take his time to decide what to say.

Maybe wash his hands, first.

* * *

  **From:** derek.hale@aol.com  
 **To:** gstilinski@berkeley.edu  
 **Subject:** Re: That vid

Wrong address.  
Derek

**Author's Note:**

> The video, of course, is [this one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9d4AhF11POg), that I discovered through [this Tumblr post](http://stilesederek.tumblr.com/post/51537080047/someone-please).
> 
> [neverbalance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbalance/pseuds/neverbalance) recorded my semi-rant and summary of the poledancing!Stiles fic I _meant_ to write, but didn't have the wherewithal to finish in time. Includes misunderstandings, long-standing arguments, and angry sex.  
>  **Download:** [Mediafire](http://www.mediafire.com/download/8hyjsvq8x4uakhc/the_poledancing_fic_I_meant_to_write.mp3) (6MB, 6min)  
>  **Stream** : [on MediaFire](http://www.mediafire.com/listen/8hyjsvq8x4uakhc/the_poledancing_fic_I_meant_to_write.mp3)


End file.
